


I Hear the Bells (this World's on Fire)

by Trixen



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8097754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixen/pseuds/Trixen
Summary: In Italy, on the Amalfi coast, Sam and Caitriona meet... for a reckoning.





	1. afterlife

**Author's Note:**

> This is *not* set in the 'Storms Rage' universe.

 

Amalfi smells like sex.

 

Perhaps it’s the ripe scent of the orange trees, heavy and pregnant with fruit. Maybe it’s the fields and mountains of flowers; the bougainvillaea, purplish geraniums, swollen petunias. It could be the food - salty olives, warm and yeasty breads, bowls of pasta brimming with tomatoes and fresh garlic and parmesan bought at the local market. 

 

But Caitriona thinks it is the sea.

 

It smells like secret places, pink and vulnerable. Smells like the place between a man’s legs that only a woman who loves him can recognize. It is like a question, ardent and burning to be answered.

 

It glimmers like thousands of gemstones beneath the sun and moon. It is exquisite and perfect and endless and as she sips wine on her balcony, she thinks that she can’t fucking stand one more minute of it.

 

In her suite, Ali Farka Toure plays. _Ai Du._ The music is a sultry slow jam. And Caitriona is on fire. 

 

Remembering.

 

Wondering.

 

_How did she get here?_

_How had it all come down to this?_

 

Her, alone. On the coast of Italy, belly full of spaghetti and vino and thinking only of a quote she’d read once. 

 

_I want you belly-deep in me._

In this lonely _appartamento,_ with its cold beds and even colder thoughts. But, she thinks, she _has_ made her own bed. As her sister is fond of telling her, she started drawing the sheets up after Dave, and it only got tighter and tighter, until Caitriona was a wounded bit of string, coiled and livid as a bruise.

 

“You drama queen, Balfe,” she whispers. But it isn’t _right_ to be here - in one of the most romantic places on earth - alone. Like the proverbial sore thumb. She tends to stick out wherever she goes. Height notwithstanding. Every restaurant. “Tavolo per due, signorina?"

 

She’s had to grit her teeth more times than she cares to admit. “No, grazie, mi basta."

 

Were there two sadder words in the sodding english language than “just me”? 

 

“What a fucking pity party you’re throwing for yourself, lass,” she says and pours more wine. The sun is beginning to set, crashing into the sea. 

 

And still, she is thinking of when it began, and knowing it was before they even met. When he had been cast, and the ball was set in motion - like a train shattering its way down the tracks toward a packed platform - and she’d rushed into that audition room, late.

 

It had been raining.

 

It was more than torrential. It was almost… prehistoric.

 

It reminded Caitriona of a trip she’d taken once to the Maldives during monsoon season. The wind and rain had been so ferocious that she’d been genuinely frightened (Dave thought she was being melodramatic - his exact, tactful words), and yet. It had been almost lovely in its intensity. 

 

  
_It never rains in fucking California_. That was all that was running through the tatters of her mind as she raced through the door, coming to a screeching halt in her soaked jeans and black top, her hair beginning to frizz wildly. Something - she decided - that wasn’t entirely out of character for Claire.

 

Now, as she tries to recall that day, she remembers little else but his eyes.

 

She’d been a mess, really. Apologizing to Ron and Maril and the various others who littered the room, trying not to blame the _bloody_ traffic while actually blaming the entire mess on it entirely, and they had been very kind and genial (she did so love Americans sometimes) and then she’d looked over and.

 

It was as if someone kicked a door open inside of her.

 

_Bang bang bang._

The noise reverberated throughout her body. It pushed against the blood pulsing in the thin veins that skittered in her arms. It closed over her stomach, squeezed. It pulled her nipples, slid between her legs. She almost stumbled back a few steps. His… _eyes -_

 

So blue, like the flame that flickered when you lit a cigarette. He had _fire_ eyes, and Caitriona was the kindling, helpless. She didn’t even know quite who he was, and she reached over, shook his hand.

 

“Hi, I’m Sam,” the apparition said and chuckled, bowing a little. “Well, James Fraser, I spose."

 

“Caitriona,” she replied, and the heart of his palm was hot against her own. 

 

And oh for fuck’s bloody sake, of fucking course he was Jamie Fraser. The King of Men. She should have guessed. She _did_ guess, but she wanted to pretend for a moment that she could suggest a drink after the audition. That he was a helpful, well built, sexy-as-fuck lion of a cameraman or he was getting the coffees, so long as he wasn’t someone she’d have to see every day.

 

She wanted to pretend that she could have him in her mouth before the night was out.

 

But she couldn’t, and so she acted normally of course, and once the process started, quite got into it, shoving him and shouting at him and it was actually not difficult all told, because he was such a natural partner in the scene, giving as much as he was given and taking more than his fair share.

 

He pulled her when she retreated and made sure to get beneath her skin as much as he was able to, and she flourished. She felt _it_ \- that elusive and frankly almost impossible thing her acting coach had spoken about. 

 

_Kismet._

That actor who you just… _fit_ with. Her coach had said it was likely never to happen, but that if it did, you’d recognize it in a moment. That it was like lightning striking.

 

When she left, she wondered if Sam had noticed it too, or if she was just being dramatic - which actresses _did_ tend to be - and she called Karolina, cursing a blue streak about being late, about Los Angeles, about anything but the fact that she was _so close_ to this. Her opportunity. Her big chance.

 

Now, it’s been years since that day, and she can still recall the feeling of the world shining before her, like the mouth of a volcano, and you could look or leap or step backward but _it was coming for you._  

 

“Buck up, Balfe,” she mutters to herself and gets out of the lounger. Sweat rings her belly like a chain and the wine has gone warm. She pours herself a fresh, icy glass from the bucket by the window. Rests her thin wrists on the balcony rail and looks out over the seas, the boats, the sun that has sunk far below the horizon, spilling its orange stain over the water.

 

Meaningless, in a way, without --

 

_Oh._

Tears crack like thunder behind her eyes. Time for a bath.

 

~

 

The _appartamento_  was worth the exorbitant cost Caitriona had paid for it, just for the bathtub alone. Huge and sloped, like a resting swan, it was set in a sort of garret, up a winding set of steps. The owners had installed a skylight directly above, and floor-to-ceiling windows on the wall opposite, so that whomever was soaking could watch the seas _and_ the stars.

 

The water is pale, sweet and silent. Church-like in its hushed perfection. She dips her head beneath, rises gasping, waves streaming like tears over her eyelashes, cheeks, lips. Distantly, she can hear her phone ringing. Scrabbling by the side with her hand, eyes blurred from the water, she lifts it to her ear, rushing out.

 

“‘Lo I mean hello-"

 

“Ye sound like ye’re running."

 

His voice. Caitriona can actually _taste_ desire in her own mouth, so present and overwhelming that it’s like food, and she can’t swallow, can barely breathe. She isn’t sure what to say at first, and he fills the gap.

 

“I suppose ye wouldn’t be. On hols."

 

“No,” she finally whispers. Her head falls back and she stares up at the night, the inky sky. “That’s more your shout, Heughan."

 

“Aye, true enough.” An awkward pause. “Look I haven’t been—"

 

“Avoiding me?” the anger that is ever present, slicing its way beneath her surfaces, it rears suddenly - shrieking and ugly. “Please don’t pretend."

 

“What do ye want me to say?” 

 

“Just admit it."

 

His tone is low, as furious as her roaring heartbeat. “Admit _what_ , Caitriona? This wasn’t _my choice,_ ye ken that well enough. But I wasn’t going to… I wasn’t going to —"

 

“Wait, perhaps?"

 

“For _what_?"

 

  
_Oh._ She feels that like the gut punch he meant it to be, and slides beneath the pale ocean once more. She holds the phone to the side of the bath and just revels for a moment, in the inescapable quiet.

 

When she returns, he says, “You’re in the bath, aren’t ye?"

 

“Yes."

 

“Christ.” His voice is rough and her belly squeezes, just a bit - a jolt of recognition. “I got your text."

 

“Funny,” she says tartly. “I wouldn’t have known given you didn’t bother to respond."

 

“I wasn’t sure what to make of it, to be honest."

 

“It was pretty clear.” She takes a breath. “Where are you, anyway?"

 

“Somewhere,” he replies in the maddening way he’s taken to speaking to her. “I just don’t ken what ye think is going to be… _gained_  from talking."

 

“Is there much else we can lose?” she asks, her throat aching.

 

He clears his. She can almost hear him thinking. “Why did ye go to Italy, Cait?"

 

“I needed… I needed to just— be somewhere else."

 

“Away from me."

 

“That’s complete shit.” 

 

“Aye?"

 

“ _Aye_ ,” she says with such blatant sarcasm that she almost apologizes. But can she really say she’s sorry any more than she has already? “It isn’t right that we’re not… we’re not even mates anymore since—"

 

“We broke up?” he finishes for her. “That’s pretty standard practice, Caitriona."

 

She decides to ignore that. “Look, I don’t want to row. I rented this place and it has a second bedroom so if you want to—"

 

“I must be bollocks crazy to even consider it."

 

“Probably. But Positano is beautiful so even if we end up screaming the place down, you might enjoy it.” A joke is almost beyond her right now, but she tries. She tries because this feels like the edge of something, an avalanche or that ever present, ever waiting volcano.

 

The world on fire, beneath their feet. 

 

“Well are you or not?” she asks. “Crazy, I mean."

 

“Must be.” Sam sounds wry - more like himself for the first time in months. “I’m standing in Naples airport right now."

 


	2. the lonely hearts club

_Several years before..._

_Scotland._

Caitriona loved a good lock-in as well as the next Irish lass. It was in her blood, after all. And so tonight, she felt particularly happy - in a way she hadn't felt for ages. Like there was a light beneath her flesh, illuminating everything, making the earth glow, fiery in its sweetness.

 

The pub was dimly lit - packed to the brim, and they were all squished into a cheerful mess around a corner table. Cait was between Toby and Maril, and directly across from Sam. Matt was underneath their feet, trying to find his glasses, which Cait suspected meant he was a bit squiffier than he was letting on. Right now, the jukebox was playing Judy Garland's version of 'The Man Who Got Away'. Soft, mournful, raging.

 

_the dreams you dreamed_

_have all gone astray..._

 

Since Tobias didn't normally have scenes with Sam, this was a rare treat, and they were all savouring the chance to get out as a group. Cait's wine was the colour of winking rubies, and felt heavy and warm in her throat. She took a large sip and elbowed Toby. "That woman who just went to the loo was checking you out."

 

"Which one?" he asked, squinting.

 

"She looks like that actress ..." Cait remembered she was talking to a boy. "No tits to speak of but a bloody nice arse. Blonde."

 

"Ah, that one." He grinned. "Seemed a bit mad though. Drinking Jagerbombs."

 

"Is that a turn off, then? If so, it would preclude me from ever dating, Toby."

 

"I thought you were regardless," he replied. His words were only a bit slurred compared to the rest of them. "I haven't seen you pull once since we started filming."

 

Cait whacked him with her clutch. "And _why_ would you even be ..." 

 

"Tallying up the scores?" he asked, laughing. "Men always notice. Anyway, don't be despondent. Heughan hasn't either."

 

"Heughan hasn't _what_?" the man in question said from across the table.

 

"Pulled," Tobias filled in helpfully and Caitriona couldn't help it; she giggled.

 

"Aye, and I could use a good seeing to," Sam said, drinking his wine in one swig. Caitriona watched his throat work as he swallowed. His Adam's apple. The pale skin and the slight hollow at the opening of his shirt. 

 

"Blonde at the bar's apparently interested in a quick shag," Tobias pointed out.

 

Sam shook his head. "Not particularly interested."

 

"An whath does interesth you then then," Maril asked, clearly toast. Her head was slipping steadily onto Matt's shoulder after every sip of wine. Her curls were basically covering his face. Cait had rarely seen anything quite so adorable in all of her years.

 

"Alcoholics mainly," Sam said with a straight face and tapped Maril's nose.

 

"Wha?" she mumbled.

 

"Probably enough, I think," Matt said and looped his arm around her waist. "Let's get you back home."

 

"Don-- wanth to--"

 

"I'll help you, mate," Tobias managed to say between chuckles, sliding out of the booth. Sam stood to let them all out and there was hand shaking and back slapping and all of the other things drunk people did, and Cait accepted sloppy kisses on her cheek, smelling winey breath and Guinness. 

 

“Another bevvy, Balfe?"

 

"Always," she said, lifting her glass to him.

 

While he was at the bar, she stared at his back, remembering the first time she'd seen him. His _eyes_. How her belly had knotted, hot and blank and desiring. She doesn't think of that much now, after these months of training and voice lessons and rolling around on hay bales. Of endless rehearsing, until it was as if she speaking over splintered glass, her voice raw. Of seeing him shirtless. Of kissing him. 

 

But not kissing _him_ and it was an interesting distinction and an important, vital one.

 

It was vital to Caitriona, because it was how she stayed sane. It was how she forgot her initial inclination to invite him back to her hotel room in Los Angeles. Make him a gin and tonic from the little bar. Limey and tart and she had imagined that was how his mouth would feel against her breasts. That it would sting. That he would suck her nipples between his teeth and pull until she grasped the hair at his nape and made him growl. 

 

She squirmed a bit in the booth. He was wearing a leather jacket and his hair was cropped a bit, short and dark red. Like burnt strawberries. When she was in her trailer at night, she couldn't help but wonder so many things.

 

What his cock would taste like.

 

What sounds he'd make.

 

But she only wondered in the dark. Only wondered when the wind howled outside and she was safe in her bed, knowing there was just a thin skin of a wall between their adjoining trailers. But that skin served a purpose. It kept her out. Because in the dark, she felt voracious.

 

It was the only time she allowed herself.

 

To _wonder_.

 

Sam returned from the bar carrying another bottle of wine. A bit ambitious she thought, but admired his fortitude. 

 

"Aren't you afraid I might drink you under the table?"

 

He grinned. "A wee lassie like ye? Not hardly, Balfe."

 

"You have exactly zero idea who you're dealing with," she said sweetly. 

 

"I probably don't, to be honest," he chucked her chin playfully and settled back onto the booth. His foot nudged hers beneath the table. "But ye canna weigh more than ... what, eight and a half stone or thereabouts?"

 

"A very dangerous game, guessing a lady's weight."

 

"Ye're a former model, I thought it safe." He poured them both glasses almost to the brim. "Whereas I'm a strapping lad. I'm quite sure I can out-drink ye."

 

"Is that a _challenge,_ Heughan?"

 

"Not really," he said hastily.

 

"You chicken shit."

 

"Ye might be onto something with that."

 

She laughed and leaned back, the velvet booth cozy and comfortable. The pub had emptied slightly, but there was still a lively group by the bar. It was the perfect kind of place - slightly dark, and old, and reeking of brick and smoke from fires and cigars long past. It had become the cast and crew's local, and while she wasn't sure if the proprietors were especially pleased (being careful not to hack off their regulars), they had still welcomed them like family.

 

It helped that they had a Scotsman as their lead.

 

"So why is that then?" Sam asked, his voice blank. 

 

"Why's what?"

 

"Why haven't ye... why aren't ye with anyone?"

 

Her mouth felt dry. "I didn't know you were listening, you eavesdropper."

 

"Couldna help it," he said, a touch defensively. He held up his hands and shrugged. "Maril wasna making any sense. I had to listen to _something._ "

 

"Shame on you, blaming a drunk woman," Cait said.

 

"So?"

 

"Why aren't _you_?" she asked.

 

"Nice try, Balfe. Answer the question."

 

She huffed a breath and drank more wine. "If you _must_ know you nosy git--"

 

Sam laughed and his eyebrows wiggled. "Fair play. And yes, I _must_."

 

"I was in a relationship for quite a long time," she answered, thinking of storms, of barren lands. Of empty beds, empty hearts. "Ended before I was cast."

 

"What's a long time, then?"

 

"Ten years."

 

Sam gawped at her for a moment. "Aye, all right. I thought ye were going to say a year maybe."

 

Caitriona couldn't help but giggle at his expression. "Is that what blokes think is a long relationship?"

 

"Um, I'm embarrassed to say it'd probably be even shorter than that." He paused and eyed her over the rim of his glass. "Would it be rude to ask what happened?"

 

“Since when has that ever stopped you?"

 

He raised an eyebrow and gave her a look. “I’ll have ye know I’m quite discreet."

 

“You? _You_? You were the reason Maril put a texting ban on tonight so you wouldn’t tweet out a pic of us all sloshed."

 

“It wasna _just_  me,” he returned snottily. “As if ye’re one to talk, woman. Always on your phone, buying various things. We’ve had more packages delivered to the set than I can even _count_."

 

“What else is there to do to pass the time?"

 

He looked up at her suddenly and she felt pinned in place, blushing as pink as roses. Hastily, she said: “Anyway, it ended for the usual reasons. He was a shit, I wasn’t much better, and then he took up with some young thing."

 

“Sounds like a complete arsehole, if I’m honest."

 

“Not far off, Heughan,” she said, lifting her glass to clink with his. “And you?"

 

“And me…?"

 

“Oh stuff it. Just tell me."

 

He laughed, and it came from his belly. Pure happiness. “I’ve had a few. I mean, nothing like a decade but— there have been girls I wondered if I’d stay with. But it never amounted to anything. I spose I’m just hoping."

 

“For…?"

 

Sam’s eyes met hers. As blue as the flicker in the heart of a flame. “For lightning to strike."

 

~

 

_Present Day_

_Amalfi._

Cait sits up in the bath so suddenly that water cascades over the sides. She splutters, coughs. _So ladylike and delicate, Balfe._ “You’re what? Why didn’t you warn me? I haven’t even— I don’t have—"

 

“What?” he sounds amused. It’s almost a relief, not to hear anger in his voice. It has been so ever-present, so cold, so… _cruel._  


 

“I don’t have… boy food,” she answers tartly. 

 

“I’m sure I can make do."

 

“It’s all vegetables and wine."

 

He makes a _pffft_ noise with his mouth. “Why do ye insist on living on air, babe?"

 

There is a crashing silence. He breathes out and chuckles wryly. “Habit."

 

“Right.” Everything feels tight and hot and her body thrums. Just a taste, that’s all she wants. Her skin actually _hurts_ for it. “Maybe you could pick up some groceries."

 

“I could be a while. Bollocks knows how I’m going to get there. Can ye text me the address?"

 

“Yes.” She pauses. “You’re really here?"

 

“I said I was."

 

“I just … I didn’t think you’d come."

 

Sam’s voice goes rough, low. “When have I ever refused ye anything, Balfe?"

 

“Many times, if I recall correctly."

 

“We’ve already decided yer memory’s faulty though,” he says, accent thickening with every word. “Look, I’m — I’m doing this because you're right. We _do_ need to talk. But this doesn’t mean we’re mates, Caitriona. I can’t be friends with ye again."

 

“I know,” and oh God, how that cleaves her. But does _she_ want that? Could she go back to easy dinners at pubs? Go back to _wondering?_  


“Will ye… wait up? Or should ye leave a key—"

 

“I’ll wait up.” She answers immediately and flushes, although he can’t see her. “Actually I think I’ll go out and get some proper food."

 

“Out of the bath?” Sam replies, voice heavy, hoarse.

 

Desire. Like a question, waiting to be answered.

 

“Yes,” she says, blankly, _wanting._ “I’ll have something ready for you."

 

He hangs up without saying goodbye. Something he’s taken to doing. Second in a long list of things he’s taken to doing since their tenuous connection split in so many different ways. Caitriona sits for a moment, staring up at the stars in their vast space of black. Hears the bells of the boats, calling their passengers back from dry land.

 

Like sirens, beckoning.


	3. so it begins

_Several years ago._

_Scotland._

Her head was a swollen sun, pulsating and in danger of exploding. Cait moaned and rubbed her sore nose, coughing weakly and trying in vain to reach the tissues on the coffee table. Instead, she accidentally knocked her glass of water over, as well as the tissue box.

 

"Shit, shit, shit, shit shit shit SHIT" she croaked out and felt very sorry for herself.

 

  
_Goddamn Scottish weather._ Days upon days of filming out in the shrieking wind and lashing rain had finally taken their toll, and Caitriona was properly sick. Worse than the blocked nose or endless hacking were the shivers, the aches, and the way her back felt like someone had driven a hot spike directly through its base. 

  
_For fuck's sodding sake_ , she thought and wrapped her arms comfortingly around herself.

 

A few soft knocks, and then a voice, tentative. "Cait? May I come in?"

 

It was a testament to how miserable she was that Cait didn't even blink at the idea of Sam seeing her in this condition.

 

In her cat pajamas. 

 

"Okay," she said and coughed again.

 

He opened their adjoining door and walked down the small hallway to her living area. He was in loose sweats and a t-shirt, his hair damp from a recent shower. Quirking an eyebrow, Sam took her in and held up the bag at his side. "I come with reinforcements. Ye look... um."

 

"Like complete shit, you can say it."

 

He smiled. "Yer nose is a bit Rudolph adjacent but otherwise- not too bad, lass. I like those jammies."

 

"They have cats on them."

 

"I can see that," Sam said gravely and headed for her kitchen. "Just close yer eyes for a wee bit and I'll be back with something my mates used to make me in uni."

 

"That doesn't sound promising."

 

"Haters never prosper, Balfe," he called out, banging about and generally making quite a bit of noise.

 

She couldn't help but smile - just a ghost of one - and did as he'd suggested, closing her eyes and letting the darkness lull her for a moment. Listening to him curse as he stubbed his toe against the edge of the fridge (he _always_ stubbed his toe while making drinks at her place and he always cursed after he'd done it), listening to the sound of breaking ice, of liquid being poured, of _Sam_. 

 

He came back quickly, and Cait eyed him suspiciously. "What is that?"

 

"I'm not going to tell ye until after you've drunk it. It won't kill ye, after all." He set down the tray and handed her a glass of pulpy orange liquid.

 

"Is it just juice?"

 

"Nah," he shrugged. "But it tastes good. Drink up, Balfe."

 

Dutifully, she did. He was right, it _was_ good. Bloody good actually. Subtly sweet, with just a lick of spice. Her sinuses began to clear and she groped for a tissue, blowing her nose before the moment could pass. The drink glowed down her throat, warming her belly as it went. 

 

"What else did you bring me?" she asked greedily, leaning back against the pillows.

 

The couch was a large, plush sectional, set flush to the walls to maximize space. Sam settled on the other side of the "L" shape and opened the bag. 

 

"First things first - soup. Lemon rice - yer-"

 

"Favourite," Caitriona finished on a sigh and set down her empty glass, taking the steaming carton. "Oh you star. I would kiss you but I'd just get you sick."

 

His ears pinked and he said nothing, just nodded to the spoon he’d put on the table. "I also brought ye a blanket from Terry - she's worried about ye and thinks this one will be better than anything they've provided. A few books from Maril - they look well dirty though. And my Netflix password."

 

"I already have that," Cait replied, sipping her soup. It was so absolutely delicious and so exactly what she wanted that she could have cried.

 

"Is _that_ why all my preferences keep changing?"

 

Cait looked at him innocently. "It felt right. Why should I pay when I can use yours?"

 

“I’ve a good mind to change it."

 

“I’d just guess it again."

 

“How did ye guess _that_ one?"

 

She smirked, feeling lots better all of a sudden. “Child’s play, Heughan."

 

“Hmmm.” He eyed her speculatively and picked up the remote. “Well do ye ken what ye want to watch on _my_ Netflix then?"

 

“Something mind numbing,” she said, spooning more soup into her mouth. “And can you put the blanket round me?"

 

“Anything else, Princess Balfe?” he asked wryly, tucking her in.

 

“Foot rub?” she joked.

 

“Aye, all right,” he surprised her by saying. “But ye canna comment on my technique."

 

Many moments later, Caitriona finished her soup and set the empty carton by the glass still tinged the colour of sunshine from Sam’s concoction. She looked away from the show on the television - Friday Night something-or-other - and at him gently, almost absent-mindedly massaging her feet. 

 

“I’m feeling rather guilty."

 

Sam gave her a half smile. “You _are_ quite high maintenance, or so it seems."

 

“I am _not,_ ” she said automatically. “Dave wouldn’t have touched my feet if I’d promised nightly blowjobs."

 

He flushed again. And Cait was suddenly - acutely - aware of his hands on her bare skin. Of how she’d squeaked out a bit with pleasure earlier when he worked out a stubborn knot from her unusually high arch. Of the fact that they were alone, and he'd brought her soup, and lightning cracked outside, so close.

 

She pulled her feet from his fingers and smiled awkwardly. “Perfect. You’ve done your duty tonight, Heughan.” She paused, anxious to cover the silence with words, however ridiculous. “What _was_ in that drink, then?"

 

“Quite simple - fresh orange juice, a bit of cayenne pepper, lemon and … perhaps a half pint of vodka?"

 

She gulped and hit him. “A HALF PINT."

 

“Well thereabouts.” He seemed unconcerned. “Relax, Balfe. It’s medicinal."

 

She thought for a moment. “Well I do feel a sight better than I did earlier."

 

“Exactly.” He sat back smugly and patted her leg. “Trust me, y’know. I won’t steer ye wrong."

 

“You git,” she laughed and settled into her pillows contentedly. 

 

  
_Soft, velvet darkness_. Arms around her. Smell of man, and good sweat, and orange trees pregnant with fruit. Sheets beneath her back, and covers drawn up around her sides. Cait sighed and looked up. Sam’s eyes. Startling blue in the dimness, seeming to memorize her face.

 

“Hi,” she whispered.

 

“Hi back,” he murmured. “Ye fell asleep. I’ll—"

 

“I still owe you a kiss for the soup,” she said drowsily, feeling a little drunk, a little silly, a little like this wasn’t really her life. That she was in a dreamworld, on the borders between everything. Like the thin skin of the door that separated them each night. 

 

Sam made a choked sound in his throat and leaned down, brushing her forehead with his lips. “Sleep well, Balfe."

 

“Mmmm,” she breathed out, already slipping back beneath the waves.

 

~

 

_Present Day._

_Amalfi._

Caitriona is making ravioli at 1am.

 

For no good reason other than she just needs something to do with her hands. Also, she knows it’s one of his guilty favourites. Her body is like a tuning fork, vibrating with every sound, every footfall. Any moment, the sound of the bell. The kitchen is a bit of a disaster, and she’s listening to Fiona Apple. Paper Bag.

 

_Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills_

_cause I know I’m a mess he don’t wanna clean up_

She’s cutting the fresh pasta into sheets. Simmering mushrooms with sherry and cream on the tiny stove. Chopping parsley and snippets of chives. Drinking wine straight from the bottle, because why not. It is almost lifelike in her mouth, like footsteps down to her tummy. So rich and warm and rivering.

 

_Knock knock knock._

She jumps. Still holding the wine bottle tight in her fist, she walks to the door. Down the passageway from the kitchen, past the living room with its sunken couches and chaises. The hall is tiled with blue and it’s cold against her toes. She’s wearing a silk nightgown and matching robe. 

 

The sirens call as she opens the door. 

 

He’s leaning with one palm against the door frame. He takes her in. She takes him in. He looks exhausted - no surprise - and dark rings his eyes like pie plates. He’s wearing jeans and a thin t-shirt, his sweater slung over his arm. An overnight bag and what looks like a bag of food and wine rests on the floor.

 

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” she says, rather stupidly. “I made ravioli. I’m _making_ ravioli."

 

Sam nods, as if this is completely normal behaviour at past midnight. “I was afraid we’d be eating air, ye see."

 

She laughs and it’s a broken sound but oh my god, he just made a _joke_ and he hasn’t done that around her in such a long, lonely time. Cait steps back. “Come in, sorry."

 

He does, and she closes her eyes, a memory snatching her up in its clutches - his voice, rasping against her ear, “Christ, the fucking _smell_ of you” and she has to turn away from him, shaking almost, like an addict. 

 

“I’ll show you—“ it sounds silly, and she pauses, “your room. Do you want to go straight to- I mean, you don’t have to eat the ravioli."

 

“I’m hungry,” he replies, a half smile ghosting over his lips. Like days she can barely remember now. “I dinna feel like… talking especially though. Can we just pretend for tonight?"

 

“Yes,” she says. Her voice is thick. “Yes, we can pretend."

 


	4. where the wild things are.

  _Present Day._

 

_Amalfi._

_“_ Christ, what _is_ this? It’s bloody incredible."

 

Cait feels faintly smug. “It’s just ravioli."

 

They are sitting cross legged on the small patio off the kitchen, leaning against the doors and staring out over the bay. She breathes in the warm, sultry air, tastes the tinge of salt, the ocean currents. Cicadas drone in the bushes so swollen with flowers, and she can smell him, the earthy scent of the pasta, the garlic that still stains her hands. Lifting the bottle of red wine to her lips, Cait drinks deeply, if only to distract herself. 

 

Because she can smell _him._

"Hand that over here, Balfe," he gestures, and she does, watching his throat work as he swallows.

 

"How was your flight?" she asks, rather inanely. 

 

Sam shrugs. "Twas about what you'd expect. Had to stop in Gatwick. Bloody English." He pauses and takes another large bite of pasta. "Still not sure what I'm doing here if I'm honest."

 

"Me either," she says softly. "I didn't expect you to ..."

 

"Already told ye I can't seem to refuse ye anything," he says with a wry grin. "Hate myself for it, but there it is."

 

"I can't say I'm not glad."

 

"Beautiful place, this."

 

"It cost the earth."

 

"Positano, I meant." He sips more wine and hands the bottle back to her. "Haven't a chance to look around yer place yet though it looks well posh."

 

Caitriona puts her mouth where his has been. "Actually I got a cracking deal. But it still cost a fucking fortune. At least no one here seems to watch the show."

 

"Why didn't ye bring anyone?"

 

"Ah yes, I can see it now... a romantic hols with one of my gay best mates." She smirks. "I have _some_ self respect."

 

"I'd imagine Donal or Tony would've been better than nobody. Or even Karo-"

 

"I didn't want anyone," she says.

 

"Why not, Balfe?" his voice is low, a bit harsh.

 

It's her turn to shrug. "It's lonelier sometimes, don't you think? Being with someone you don't really want there? I knew they'd have a shit time. I wouldn't be much company."

 

"Bodes well for my visit then," he teases, bumping her shoulder with his.

 

"I'd expected you to have already hiked one of the mountains by now," she says innocently, enjoying the moment of familiarity. Of how it used to be. "Bag some Italian munros."

 

"All in the schedule," he says briskly, a bit formally, and her heart shudders. "I'd best get to sleep. I'm all out of whack with the flying."

 

"I'll show you--"

 

"No need. I'll find it."

 

"Okay - but--"

 

"Tomorrow," he says, so quietly that she struggles to hear. Standing, he takes his plate with him. "Thanks for the dinner, Balfe. It was smashing."

 

"You're welcome," she whispers, and leans back once more against the glass, watching the lights shimmer in the bay, hearing the bells toll for the sailors, for those still yet to come home. 

 

~

 

_Years ago._

_Scotland._

Outside, the wind keened, but inside, they were as snug as two bugs in a rug. Or so Sam kept saying, trying to keep his voice from slurring or stumbling over the words.

 

"Leave it out, Heughan, you'll never be able to say it," Caitriona couldn't help but crow.

 

Curled up on one end of her sectional, she had a perfect view of him sprawled across the velvet blanket Terry had given her when she was sick. He was drinking red wine from the bottle and so was she. Needs must. They'd had a brutal shooting schedule that week.

 

"I might still," he said testily.

 

"Nah," she shook her head and her hair tumbled out of its makeshift knot, cascading over her shoulders in knots and curlicues. While the storm continued to rage outside, inside, her trailer was hot and she'd forgone her cat pajamas for a thin tank top and sleep shorts. Totally and completely necessary, as she was also on fire from drinking way.too.much.wine.

 

He shrugged. "Oh ye of little faith."

 

"Little? I have _zero_."

 

"Right through the heart," he chuckled and rummaged around for the bag of crisps they'd opened earlier. "Fancy some more food?"

 

"You're going to get fat if you keep on this eating schedule," she said primly. 

 

"We can't all live on air, babe."

 

"That is such a crock of shit," she replied. "I eat all the bloody time and in fact, Terry said I need to stop or she'll have to make the stays bigger or some other embarrassing thing."

 

"Jamie likes his woman with a bit of arse to her," Sam said, dodging Cait as she went to hit him. "Seriously though, don't ye have any snacks? Perhaps a cheese toastie?"

 

"If you like gluten free bread..."

 

"I do."

 

"... and goat cheese."

 

"I dunno babe, isn't that a bit... I mean, it smells, doesn't it?"

 

"It's goat's cheese, not _blue_ cheese."

 

"I'm too pissed to have this conversation."

 

"Or to operate the cooker, I think," she said and got up. "I'll make them. Christ, why can't Scottish boys hold their drink any more?"

 

He collapsed back on the sectional. "Well since ye're now making me food, I'd say this was a successful night."

 

So Caitriona cooked them both _chevre chaud_ , one of her favourite meals from her modelling days. Back then, she'd skipped the bread, equating bread with other devilish things like alcohol (besides champagne) and eating after 7pm. Cigarettes being her dinner of choice at the time. 

 

Thin pieces of bread, buttered lightly and toasted to golden brown. Smears of goat cheese, baked until bubbly. A little olive oil, a bit of seasoning. Perfect, rich, slightly glam. They ate in front of the TV, opening another bottle of wine and listening to the rain clamoring against the windows.

 

"Scotland in November, eh?" he said.

 

"Quite bonny," she joked and finished her toast. "More wine please."

 

"As you wish," he replied, something he'd taken to doing since they watched _The Princess Bride_ together and she'd rejected his idea to answer every question or comment with _My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father. Prepare to die._ Caitriona had had to point out that not everyone would find it quite so amusing as Sam did.

 

That even she'd put her foot down.

 

After the thirty-seventh time.

 

In a row.

 

Wine trickled down her throat in a satisfying rush, and not for the first time, she thought about how he would taste and _oh god she had to stop this but --_

He was up with the dishes, taking them into the small kitchen, and she watched the lines of his back move. His arms flex just a bit. The way his hair curled at the nape. And she felt ... voracious. To want and want and want

 

and be empty.

 

It was like nothing Cait had ever experienced before. It was horrible to say, but as a model, she could have any man she wanted really, and did, for a spell. Before Dave. And then that dry season came into her life, and she'd been too exhausted and sick from cigarette smoke and endless photo shoots and cat walks and catty bitches that she'd just-- not really found time to think about the fact that her body existed.

 

But with Sam, she was aware every time he moved.

 

Every time he swallowed.

 

Every time he sneezed or scratched his back or adjusted the waistband of his jeans or took a bite of food or sweated or sung beneath his breath.

 

It was ... a particular kind of agony, and she felt as if every nerve ending in her body was sensitive to heat or touch or sound. They were firing like neurons in the bones of her blood of her pink secret places, and she couldn't -- _take_ it.

 

But oh, she could take _him._

 

And she would.

 

If. 

 

If... it wasn't so complicated. If he wasn't - for all intents and purposes - a co-worker. If... if he wanted her back.

 

That was what it came down to, of course. She wasn't so bloody noble that she'd give up fantastic sex for work. But... he just-- he'd never shown the slightest sign of being aware of her. Of even noticing times like tonight, when her legs were bare and polished and just-- _there._ When her collarbones were exposed. When he could hardly fail to see the shadows of her nipples beneath her tank top. 

 

She was... _alight_... and he seemed to feel nothing. 

 

"Going to head off, Balfe."

 

His voice startled her so much that she jumped. He was standing there, and she was wet, and she felt embarrassed and turned on and vaguely furious in a way she couldn't articulate. But she didn't say any of that, just nodded and waved her hand.

 

"Good riddance."

 

He laughed and chucked her chin. "Sweet dreams, babe."

 

"You too."

 

After another glass of wine, Cait thought the buzzing might exist only in the deep recesses of her drink-addled brain. It turned out to be Sam's mobile, vibrating away on the floor next to the couch. She had to laugh, wondering how on earth he'd managed to miss it, seeing as it was an almost constant presence in his hand. Sam, the Serial Texter, as Maril had nicknamed him long ago.

 

Picking it up, she walked to the door, knocking lightly. Assuming he was passed out in a winey haze, she opened it carefully, quietly, and crept down the short hallway toward his living room. Something stopped her. She wasn't sure what it was at first. A series of... _sounds._

 

A ... gasping noise?

 

Something wet.

 

And she moved again, toward the door to his bedroom. She knew, oh she knew - she was tempting fire. But -- she _had to see_. The door was slightly ajar. Sam was leaning with his left elbow against the cupboard, his hand gripping the top of the door. Knuckles white. He was slightly tilted away from her, his side visible, his shirt off. His sweats hung loosely on his hips. And his other hand...

 

_God._ He was fisting his cock, fucking up into his palm, making low, hungry sounds in his throat. Eyes squeezed shut, he was graceful yet sloppy - a man desperate to get off, knowing how to get himself off, knowing where to touch, how hard, how quick. His fingers were damp and she had the sudden image of him licking them, sucking them into his mouth, and Cait almost whimpered, thinking she needed to stop this, leave, it was too intimate, raw.

 

And his hand moved faster, making slight slapping sounds, flesh against flesh, and then he said it, guttural and rough, "Christ, _yes_. Suck me." His eyes were still closed, and his lips parted on a breath. "Cait, _please._ "

 

She did back away then, back to her trailer, back to the quiet hum of her blood, back to the darkness. Pressed against the door, Cait felt her heart juddering beneath her breasts, a wild beat. Bracing her one fist against the handle, she lowered her hand inside of her sleep shorts, wanting to cry out, wanting to keen like the wind outside, aching, aching,

 

begging her own body for relief.

 

 


	5. the burning girl.

_Present Day._

_Amalfi._

Sweat winds its way around the bones of Caitriona's back, like a salt river. She pauses on the wind-swept hill, turning to gaze out over the shimmering, endless sea. Azure blue and flickering like millions - billions - of tiny flames, the waves cradle boats and yachts and sailors and mermaids. On the horizon, the isle of Capri sits like an emerald, beckoning, waiting. Her heart thunders behind her breastbone, and yet - she feels full, grateful, so far from the cold, thin, agonized person she's been for so many months.

 

"Get a move on, Balfe," Sam calls from ahead of her. He stands with his hands on his hips, sweat dampening his hair, clad in shorts and a t-shirt, sunglasses, a backpack. Like a proper tourist.

 

A proper drill sergeant.

 

"I'm on hols," she reminds him fruitlessly. "And this is a very steep hill."

 

"That's why it's called a _hike_ ," he says, looking disgusted. "Ye said ye wouldn't complain."

 

"I'm _not_ ," she says sweetly. "But can I have a bloody second to look at the view please?"

 

"Ye've had it."

 

"Oh you're too right I have," she mutters. 

 

"What was that?"

 

"Nothing," she calls and turns to continue walking. 

 

The 'Path of the Gods', which Sam insisted was on his bucket list of hikes, is well-worn and stony, with tussocks of grass and vast lakes of flowers. Blush pink valerian, great bushels of rosemary, Spanish broom, thorny rock roses and bruised wild orchids. She breathes in, smelling the rawness of the thousands of blooms, the sage and thyme, the coppery sea, the sex scent of Amalfi.

 

She's so distracted by the profusion of sensuality that she almost trips and tumbles off the cliff side. She wonders - rather uncharitably - if Sam would even notice. He was full of beans that morning, making pots of thick, dark coffee and dragging out maps (there was no computer in the _appartamento,_ thank Christ), tracing paths with his fingers and eating all of her sticky buns.

 

"Couldn't you have left me one?" she had asked crossly, rummaging through the fridge for something edible.

 

"Was _starving_ ," he mumbled between bites. "Anyway, since when do ye eat sugar again?"

 

"When in Italy, Sam," she said and felt a rush of delight when she stumbled upon a leftover _crostata amarena_ she'd bought a few days ago. It was dense and buttery and filled with sour cherry jam, so perfectly tart that it stung her teeth. Bliss. She closed her eyes, almost moaning with pleasure - Italian hangover food was better than an orgasm.

 

Well, almost.

 

Cait looked up to find him watching her. "Wha?" she asked, trying not to open her mouth.

 

He cleared his throat. "No-- never mind. Ye just looked as if ye were enjoying that."

 

"I _am._ And you can't have any, greedy guts."

 

Sam laughed, for the first time that morning. "It's fine. I already ate all of your buns." He paused and raised an eyebrow. "Unless ye have anything else you'd like me to ... eat?"

 

Cait flushed and busied herself with tidying up crumbs. He knew what he was doing to her and he was such a shithead and she wasn't going to rise to the bait.

 

She _wasn't._  


 

"Daydreaming again, Balfe?"

 

Cait jumps. Sam is right in front of her, and he's taken off his sunglasses so she meets the full burn of his eyes. She scowls at him - a protective measure.

 

"What?"

 

He chuckles. "You were stood stock still. I thought ye might be considering jumping."

 

"Oh." She shakes her head a bit. "I was just thinking about... food. I'm hungry."

 

"Energy bar?"

 

"Those remind me of cardboard boxes," she says. "We're in bella Italia. I want a pizza."

 

Sam rolls his eyes. "Is it just me or are ye getting quite demanding in yer old age?"

 

They reach the end of a particularly steep climb, the trail leveling off to etch its way across a field of petals and rock. To their left is the sea, to their right the flowers. Caitriona can smell him, his body, the sandalwood of his shaving cream, can see a nick he made that morning - a slight blood line beneath his chin. Once, she would have leaned over and kissed that spot, open-mouthed and wanting, nuzzling into his arms, slipping her hand down to his shorts.

 

Once.

 

"I did bring some rolls," Sam says as they stop at the zenith of the hill. "If yer as hungry as ye say."

 

"Would I lie about that?"

 

"I have no idea what ye'd lie about, Balfe," he says shortly, and opens his backpack.

 

He unfolds a blanket, setting it on the grass so they can watch the sea as they eat. From the depths, he lays out a proper picnic and her heart squeezes a bit. Rolls with thick slices of cheese, fresh, bursting figs, salty kalamata olives, a pot of hummus, thin crackers studded with sesame seeds, sparkling water, and a bottle of Limoncello that was obviously next to a cold pack - condensation runs in rivulets down its sides.

 

"When did you... and where..."

 

"I couldna sleep this morning," he says, avoiding her eyes. "Went to the market down the way. I knew ye'd be hungry. Ye have a bottomless stomach that rivals a lad's."

 

"I _will_ thump you," she warns, but really, he's absolutely correct and she's _ravenous_ and it all looks so delicious that she isn't sure where to begin. 

 

They eat there, on the side of a sheer drop, sitting on the warm blanket beneath a sun as yellow as lemons. The Limoncello is still cool, slightly syrupy. They pass the bottle back and forth. Cait's belly rumbles as she feeds it, sticking juicy figs between the rolls, letting the salt meet the sweet, scooping up bites of hummus with the crackers, picking out olive pits with her teeth. Finally, she sits back and moans gently.

 

"You'll have to carry me back, I'm afraid."

 

"Could call a tax--" Sam breaks off as he looks at her. "Did ye not put sunscreen on before we left?"

 

"Yes-- oh." Caitriona stops her affronted tone immediately because _no she did not_. "I meant to. Shit."

 

"You're going to be as red as all hell, babe," he says and reaches into the pack. "Put this on."

 

She smooths the cream onto her arms and legs, noticing that he's facing away from her, studiously not watching. She tries in vain to reach her back and throws the tube of cream in his direction. "Can you make yourself useful please?"

 

Sam looks at her then. His eyes are dark and heavy, and oh, she _recognizes_ that. But he doesn't say anything, simply picks up the lotion and twirls his finger, indicating she needs to turn around. Cait does, thrumming inside, sitting cross-legged and ardent, drawing her heavy ponytail away from her shoulders.

 

"Take down your straps," Sam says, his voice hoarse, low.

 

She does, barely breathing. Feels his palms rest on her shoulders, tentative, questing. Slowly, he rubs the cream into the skin of her upper back, the wings of her shoulder blades, dipping only slightly beneath her tank top to cover the flesh there. His touch is strong, measured. It's only when he slides his fingers along the bumps of her collarbones, down the curve of her elbows, that she feels the shudder, the tremble in him. 

 

"I already did my arms," she whispers.

 

Sam drops his forehead against the back of her head, near her ponytail. She can feel the puffs of his breaths at her hairline. His palms remain, hot on her arms, just underneath the swell of her breasts. 

 

He makes a sound not unlike a moan and his tone is ragged with desire. "Christ, I'd like to fuck ye right now."

 

Caitriona _aches_ and yet, she knows. "But you won't."

 

"I won't," he says, moving away from her. "Ye know why."

 

"How long are you going to be angry with me?"

 

"I'm not angry with ye, Cait. Not anymore."

 

"Then why--"

 

He looks directly into her eyes then. "It's just not ... _worth_ it."

 

She feels that like the stab he meant it to be. It reaches inside of her and snatches up her stomach, her lungs, her ridiculous heart. How scared she has been, how alone, and that's what he thinks. That's what he's been holding there, on his tongue, to spill out. That.

 

Cait stands, brushing herself off. "Got it."

 

"Look -- Caitriona -- I-"

 

"It's fine," she says brightly. "You're right. It was just shagging anyway, wasn't it."

 

He tilts his head. "Was it?"

 

"Of course. We always said so, didn't we."

 

And they walk back the way they came, down the Path of the Gods, into the fading glow of the sun.

 

~

 

_Years ago._

_Scotland._

Her fingers were not enough. Caitriona was so ... _close_ and yet.

 

It happened then. A knock at the connecting door, on the thin skin of the dreams that separated them. She blushed immediately, as red as poinsettias. _God_ had he heard her. Had he _seen_ her. She scrabbled with the door knob and turned, trying desperately to avoid his gaze. 

 

"Not had enough wine?"

 

"Left my mobile," Sam said evenly. 

 

Cait realized it was still clutched in her hand. She _had_ to look up now. She proffered the slippery phone to him, but backed up a step when he walked through - continuing to ... herd her toward the living area. It was almost... _predatory_? and she quelled a bit, wanting to laugh or do something normal, so that the moment would break, shatter.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"Did ye enjoy that?"

 

"The wine? I--"

 

"Not the wine, Caitriona." His fingers came up and tilted her chin. He forced her to meet his eyes.  _Fire._ "I heard ye running away."

 

"I thought I was quiet about it," she said meekly, mortified and thinking only of trap doors opening up and swallowing her whole.

 

"Not quite," he said. "So-- did ye?"

 

"Did I what?"

 

"Like what ye saw."

 

"I..." she was grasping, and she didn't know what to say, but the image came back to her suddenly, his wet hand fisting his cock, his groans. _Suck me. Cait._ "I didn't -- I only glanced--"

 

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He was still shirtless, and she could feel the heat coming off his skin. "I often wonder, ye know."

 

"About what?" she whispered.

 

"About what you're thinking... when ye look at me."

 

"You tell me," she said, emboldened. _Voracious_. He was so close and yet--

 

Sam glanced to the side, scrubbed his hand over the messy hair at his nape. "If I was a betting man?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I'd say this."

 

He placed his palm over the hollow of her throat, pushed her back. Cait's head bumped against the wall and then he was flush with her, his body on hers, his fingers in her hair, and his mouth - God his _mouth_. He was _kissing_ her. Sam was kissing her, and the taste of him was heavy between her lips, swollen with wine and the pulse of his blood.

 

"Was I right?" he groaned into her, hands coming down, cupping her ass and spreading her, making her open her legs for him. 

 

"Yes, _yes_ ," she said.

 

"Do ye know what I was thinking about in there?"

 

"Yes," she whimpered, trying to get closer, pushing her clit against the muscle of his thigh. 

 

"That's what I do every night, babe," he said roughly and pinned her arms above her head. The phone dropped to their feet, bouncing harmlessly off the carpet. She felt speared in place, desperate. "I go back there and I imagine peeling off these tiny shorts - these thin tops - I imagine your nipples and how ye might look there - so wet and pink. I imagine ye riding my face."

 

She was moaning almost incoherently, the tension of the past few months at breaking point, ready to snap, ready for relief.

_"Please..."_

He leaned down, sucked her lip between his. "Do ye wear these little things -- do ye wear them to drive me mad?"

 

"Yes."

 

He laughed low, and she felt his mouth again, hot on hers, his cock hot against her stomach. "I'm going to make ye pay for that, Balfe."

 

And he did.

 


	6. fathoms deep.

  _Years ago._

_Scotland._

 

The coffee was rich and dark, smelled sultry like almond oil, roasted pecans and vanilla. Caitriona gripped the cup between icy palms, leaned against the side of her trailer, and wondered briefly if murdering Sam would really accomplish anything.

 

After all, she _still_  wouldn’t have gotten laid, and he’d be dead.

 

But.

 

It’s a bit too much. Here she was, in her “shift” as they called it - filming scenes when Claire’s just gone back through the stones and is either running from lobsterbacks like a chicken with its head cut off, spitting at Black Jack Randall, or setting Jamie’s arm by the glow of firelight. Usually, Cait enjoyed the scenes in the “cabin” best, but today, she wanted nothing more than to steer clear of Sam’s smirk and his knowing, predatory glances.

 

He was driving her _mad_ and worse, he _knew_ it, the bastard.

 

For the moment, she was not being prodded and poked by make-up folks, or having her hair re-adjusted, or the “dress” flattened and stretched and sewn. It was a relief for her body to be hers, even for a second - and Cait sipped the hot coffee, wished only for a danish and a fuck and a sleep, in that particular order. 

 

He had turned her body into something that _wanted_ in a way she couldn’t reconcile.

 

“Balfe."

 

Speak of the bloody devil. Cait looked up and scowled. “ _Hello._ "

 

“You been binging Seinfeld again?"

 

“Yes.” She paused. “Hello, _Newman."_

“Well at least ye’re speaking to me, babe. I wondered."

 

She took him in. He was in his King of Men outfit. Kilt or plaid or whatever. His hair was cut short - the way she secretly preferred - and he was covered in dirt and blood and _oh_ she could … _eat_ him right now. How she’d ever pretended he was just… a _mate?_ It seemed ridiculous, silly, incomprehensible.

 

She was on fucking fire, and she hated him for it.

 

“I’m _barely_ speaking to you."

 

“Good enough,” he nodded. “I dinna need you to speak much for this."

 

“For wha—“ she squeaked as he grabbed her arm and took off, marching toward the forest beyond the set. “ _Sam_ …” it was a hiss, as to not alert the crew, and he ignored it, fairly dragging her along, stumbling over stones and branches and leaves. “Sam,” she said louder. “What the bloody _hell_ —"

 

Sam pushed her up against a tree a good kilometere away from the set and the lights and the makeshift buildings and cameras. He regarded her for a moment and then smiled.

 

“It’s as if we’re role playing, isn’t it?"

 

Cait laughed, full-on belly laughed and snorted too. She couldn’t help it. “God help us if we get _that_ sad."

 

“I dunno, I quite fancy Claire. And I _know_ ye fancy Jamie."

 

“How do you know that?” she asked, lifting her chin. Daring him.

 

“Ye get wet when we film sometimes,” he said, just like that. Simply, quietly, hotly. “I can … I can _smell_ it. And Christ, the smell of you, Caitriona. I—"

 

She dragged him toward her then, not caring, sod her pride, and their lips were flush, wet, kissing, kissing, kissing. But he drew back, turned her so it was his back against the tree. Lowered down to his heels, never once taking his eyes from hers.

 

“Take off your knickers."

 

“Why?” she breathed out.

 

“Because you’re going to ride my face."

 

“I am?” 

 

“Aye."

 

“Sam— what if someone—"

 

“No one will. Take them off."

 

She was helpless, unable to say no — unable to _want_  to say no. She reached beneath the dress, unsnapped the supporting garment that they insisted she wear - ladies in the 1940s made _sure_ their waists were cinched - and drew down her underwear, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side.

 

Sam looked up at her and grasped her hips with his hands. “I’ve dreamt about this,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Come here, Balfe."

 

With her palms against the tree, Caitriona slowly stepped forward, until she was straddling his shoulders. She felt him lifting her dress, just barely, so he could get beneath. Her inner thighs pressed against his shoulders and then his mouth was _there_ and she sucked in a breath, her forehead falling against the bark, her body almost going slack.

 

Thankfully, he was ready, and her braced her with his palms, holding her to him, as he slowly, carefully and reverently ate her pussy. His tongue was hot and he seemed to know instinctively what she liked, not focusing directly on her clit. Just teasing, dragging, sucking. He kept his hands against her ass, holding her open and holding her up all at the same time.

 

She could feel the warm puffs of his breath against her as he sucked her deep, drawing all of her folds into his mouth and engorging them with blood. He was making sounds of pleasure low in his throat and when Cait glanced down, beyond his lips, she could see that his cock was hard, poking through the plaid, heavy and hurting. It sent a rush of desire straight through her, branching like lightning. 

 

He drew back for a moment. “ _Fuck,_ I can’t get enough of this — ride my face, Caitriona."

 

And she did. She rocked back and forth, holding onto the tree for purchase as she fucked his face, feeling his groans vibrate through her pussy, feeling the light scrape of his teeth, of his stubble, of his lips, as he sucked at her and pulled at her. It was _too much_ and she couldn’t get enough either - she _couldn’t_ \- she wanted it to go on and on and on, the rasp of him, the _sounds_  he was making - as if this was as much of a turn-on for him as it was for her, the orgasm just out of reach, like a glittering island --

 

and then--

 

_oh,_ she broke. 

 

And he drank her down.

 

_Present Day._

 

  _Amalfi._

Tucked away amongst the bougainvillea and cluttered book shops is a small cafe that Caitriona discovered her first day in Positano. She'd been walking up and up, sweating freely, saying the street names out loud to herself. _Via della Tavolozza._ The cafe was a welcome respite. Homey and smelling of sugar and butter, with the proprietors standing behind the counter, wreathed in smiles, handing out cups of thick, dark coffee and biscuits.

 

She sits outside now, legs still trembling slightly from their afternoon hike. Heart still shuddering from the cruelty of Sam's dismissal. She's sipping an espresso and munching angrily on ricotta cheese cookies - so dense and almost ... _creamy_ that they slowly, carefully, bandage the wound that he made - it feels _open,_ purplish. Like the flowers on the hill, so easily bruised by storms and sun and the roaring wind. 

 

"Winds from the east..." she murmurs. 

 

_But I fear what's to happen, all happened before._

 

God, she's being melodramatic, and yet.

 

How could he _say_ that to her?

 

Not... worth it.

 

Without value. Meaningless. Unlikely to expend any effort on. Was that how he saw her now? After everything they'd been through? After Paris? After that hellish night in LA? After all she'd forgiven _him_ for - and he couldn't forgive that one lie? He couldn't forgive _her_ fears? 

 

Her book is open and she's startled when she sees tears at the crease where the pages meet. She hadn't realized she'd been crying, but it was no fucking wonder, considering what a coward she's been lately. Scrubbing her palms over her salty cheeks, she looks down at the dampened words, wonders if the ink will run off the page, just like her stupid, foolish dreams.

 

Doesn't everyone dream of forever, even if they know it doesn't exist?

 

Tracing the letters with the pad of her thumb, she reads out loud, voice soft, soft. "You will still have the same floating gracefulness of movement, and no dancer will ever tread so lightly; but at every step you take, it will feel as if you were treading upon sharp knives, and that the blood must flow. If you will bear all of this, I will help you."

 

Caitriona pauses, reading again. _And that the blood must flow._

_"Yes, I will," said the little princess in a trembling voice, as she thought of the prince, and the immortal soul._

The prince. Her prince. What did you do then, if like the littlest mermaid, you discover he's no prince at all? You can't go back, after all. Your fish tail is split. You have a living body now, a thing to drag around, that needs a pulsing heart to survive. A sand girl. No more salt, or anemones or brackish lobsters or hidden caverns. No more shipwrecks and drowned sailors. No more bared breasts and seashell necklaces and hair that flows like a banner of blood.

 

How can there be no more? Here, on the coast, with the water rushing over the rocks and the chance of mermaids around every corner, it feels impossible.

 

_"But if you take away my voice," said the little mermaid, "what is left for me?"_

 

And Caitriona reads along with the witch, out loud. "Your beautiful form, your graceful walk, and your expressive eyes; surely with these you can enchain a man's heart. Well, have you lost your courage? Put out your little tongue that I may cut it off as my payment."

 

_Your expressive eyes. Enchain a man's heart._

_Have you lost? Put out your little tongue that I may cut._

Such morbid things, fairy tales. So far from Disney as to be immersed in another galaxy. She sips her espresso and wonders. Wonders if the princess regretted her actions when she stumbled upon the marriage bed. The prince - _her_ prince, enchained by another woman. Wonders if Sam remembers that first time, when they kissed in her trailer. Tongues wet and pulling, his hands on her ass, spreading her legs so far apart that it hurt.

 

The way he ... _toyed_ with her. He'd never done it quite that way again - so teasing, so _knowing._

 

His voice was guttural. "Keep your arms above your head."

 

As he said it, he yanked down her sleep shorts with his left hand and stared directly into her eyes as he licked the fingers of his other. She thrummed with the movement, remembering his wet hand on his cock, the way he closed his eyes and his knuckles tightened white on the top of the cupboard. As his thumb parted her and settled over her clit and she jerked, she remembered seeing his fantasies play over his face, how he'd groaned out her name. _Suck me._ Imagined seeing her there, on her knees for him, mouth open, ready and willing to take him however he wanted.

 

Cait whimpered. "Please Sam."

 

"Ye're begging me?" he said low. "After admitting torturing me with these little outfits?"

 

"Yes," she said, her head back, throat exposed. "I wanted you to --"

 

"What?" he dipped and licked her flesh, sucking gently at the hollow of her collarbone. "What did ye want me to do?"

 

Caitriona had the thought then that this should be awkward. That they had gone from mates to dirty talk in 30 seconds flat. And yet, it felt as if their time as just good mates was the lie, the strange bit, the one that was always close to shattering. There, with his hot mouth behind her ear, Caitriona wondered how they'd ever pretended.

 

"I wanted you to want me."

 

"Oh, there's never been any doubt about that, Balfe," he said roughly, two of his fingers driving inside of her. "Can ye feel me?"

 

"God, _yes_ ," she breathed out, trying not to clutch his shoulders, trying to keep her arms where he said. But it was sweet torture, to be fucked by his fingers against the wall, to be almost lifted off the floor by the force of the thrusts, and not to touch him, feel him, grab at him.

 

His thumb settled just below her clit, hitting it with intermittent spasms that made Cait come almost immediately, clenching and crying out around his fingers. Her arms fell as she did, and she locked onto him, kissing him with everything left in her. It was deliciously dirty to still feel him slowly, lazily fucking her with his hand, drawing out her wetness and covering her slit with it, trailing up to her belly. 

 

"That was quick," he murmured, licking the roof of her mouth, her teeth.

 

Cait snared his lip and bit. "You had me gagging for it, as I think you've guessed."

 

"Ye hid it well."

 

"So did you." She moaned a bit as he withdrew his hand fully. "Let's go to bed--"

 

"No, that's it for tonight, Balfe."

 

"I'm sorry?" she replied, almost smiling. He had to be joking.

 

"I said I was going to make you pay, didn't I?" Sam pressed a kiss to her nose and pulled her shorts up around her hips. "Ye haven't had nearly enough punishment yet."

 

"Are you... you must be fucking kidding." Her voice was flat.

 

"'Fraid not," he said and kissed her again, open-mouthed and hungry. "Want ye to hurt like I did. And tomorrow, I want ye to be wet all day, just imagining my cock in your pussy. Cause I'll be imagining it, Caitriona. I want to make this last."

 

"Who says I'm going to fuck you tomorrow?" she asked, trying to breathe steadily. His kiss, his _words_. She was on fire again. Shimmering and heady with want. "I might not."

 

"Ah, ye will," he traced his hand down to her breasts and pressed it between, felt her heart. "Cause ye want this as much as I do. Ye want me to fuck ye again and again and again until ye don't even know your own name. _Until I own you."_

Now, with the sun heating her neck and the taste of espresso in her mouth and the smell of dust in the air, she can remember that night and not feel the fury she did then. Watching him walk away, open-mouthed with shock (every cliche, was Caitriona, in that moment), watching the door to his trailer shut. Watching and thinking she couldn’t quite believe he was good to his word.

 

He _was_ going to make her pay.

 

She watched, and wondered if she felt like playing.

 

She watched and wondered and knew that she did, oh she _did._

 

But it’s all dust now, just like the air surrounding her. According to him, she’s not _worth_ the game any longer. Not worth chasing or even punishing.

 

Tears sting her eyes again, bright and burning, and she looks down at her book. _Her tender feet felt as if cut by sharp knives, but she cared not for it; a sharper pang had pierced through her heart._

“Reading your sad stories again, Balfe?"

She doesn’t bother to wipe away the salt. But she does close the pages, trapping her tears within the ink and bones of the tale. He settles across from her, waves at the proprietors through the open door, motioning for more espresso. The smile touches his lips but doesn’t reach his eyes. At least she gets _that._ At least he isn’t _happy._ That would be more than she could bear.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly and she finally looks up.

 

Sam is staring at her and his eyes are heavy, dark. He obviously showered after their hike (while she tore off to the cafe in a rage) and his hair is damp, curling wetly. He’s forgotten to shave and there is a circle of sweat at the hollow of his throat, like a ten cent piece. She takes him in and then shrugs.

 

“You should go back to Glasgow,” Caitriona says, and feels his surprise reverberate across the table, straight into her belly. “This was a waste of bloody time, and I want to enjoy my hols. I won’t text you again."

 

A muscle in Sam’s jaw ticks, and he rests his hands on the table as the owner delivers two fresh cups of espresso and another plate of cookies.

 

“Grazie mille,” Cait murmurs and he beams at them both, backing away.

 

“I dinna want to go back,” Sam finally says. “I realize I’ve been an arsehole. But ye must get that I’ve had no time to— I didna know ye wanted to meet. This knocked me for six, is all."

 

“I’ve _always_ said we needed to talk.” 

 

“I didna want to _talk_ Caitriona,” he says low, and everything in her squeezes tight. “Ye ken that well enough. I can hardly be around ye without— well, I dinna need to say it. I’ve been so… _furious_ with you. So bloody furious and I ken it’s out of proportion and I ken that in some ways I’m being ridiculous. The boys have told me often enough but— I just canna believe you had such little faith in me. In us."

 

“There was no _us_ ,” she says tightly.

 

Sam blinks. “Now who’s being a coward?"

 

“We never defined it."

 

“Ye never wanted to."

 

Cait nods, sipping her coffee. “I didn’t want to jinx things."

 

“Instead ye ruined things. Was that preferable?"

 

“So I was solely at fault? Is that really what you believe?"

 

“Nah, of course not,” he shakes his head and downs the espresso in one gulp. His throat works as he swallows and Caitriona has to look away. Too intimate, too … tender. “I own my part. I did plenty of bloody stupid things while we were together. Some of which I’ll never forgive myself for. But ye know where that came from, Caitriona. I think ye know very well."

 

“I’ve said I’m sorry."

 

“I know.” He pauses and eats one of the cookies. “Christ these are good."

 

“I’ve had a million of them,” she concedes and giggles suddenly, the rush of emotion not unlike an onslaught of tears. “I’m going to go back and Terry’ll have to take out all my skirts."

 

“Would look good on you,” he says, munching thoughtfully. “To that end, let’s go out for dinner."

 

“Go… out?"

 

“Aye, let’s get a pizza. Ye said ye wanted pizza."

 

“I didn’t think you were listening."

 

Sam stares at her, shaking his head. “I dinna think ye’re listening, actually. Don’t ye think I listen to every word ye say? Hoping for … _anything_? Hoping you’re thinking about me the way I’m thinking about you? Don’t ye think I was … _obsessed_ when we were together? Watching ye across the set, thinking of ye beneath me, above me, next to me - wondering what ye were thinking… wondering what ye wanted, and dreamt of, and _needed_?” 

 

Cait struggles to breathe and just _looks_ , like an idiot, like a bloody idiot.

 

He stands and throws some notes on the table. “Look — Balfe, if ye want pizza, I’ll get ye pizza. Let’s go home and get dressed, aye?"

 

 

 


	7. castaways

_December 2013_

 

_Scotland._

She was tired, dirty, streaked with grime and slime and muck and marsh and whatever else. She smelled of horses and of wet wool, and her trailer seemed to welcome her through its doors, speaking of rushing hot water and wine. Of cheese on toast and Netflix. 

 

The envelope caught her eye first. It was where she couldn’t possibly miss it. Propped against a half-full bottle of Shiraz. 

 

He knew her too well, already.

 

“Sam…” she said out loud, smiling. He liked to leave her notes. Sometimes written in the steam that accumulated on the mirror during her showers. On post-its that he gave to the make-up girls to hand over during morning coffee. Little ripped-out pages by her bed when he was on night shoots. 

 

Cait opened the envelope and a few things slipped out. Plane tickets? 

 

Did people even _print_ plane tickets any more?

 

A few words, scrawled on top of a love poem by Apollinaire - Le Pont Mirabeau.

 

_Filming’s done tomorrow, Balfe. Paris?_

_xxx_

_~_

 

_Present Day._

_Amalfi._

 

Caitriona dresses carefully. 

 

Positano may not be Paris or New York, but she reckons she can still make Sam sweat regardless. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in her room, she cocks her hip and regards her reflection with the punishing honesty that only models have. She’s grown a bit of a tummy since embarking on her No Carb Left Behind tour of Bella Italia, but all in all, the picture isn’t _horrifying_. 

 

She’s chosen a leather mini skirt to show off her legs - tanned instead of burned, thanks Sam - and a sheer white, filmy tank top that she’s tucked in. All the better to reveal the hints of her nipples. Bras are so unnecessary when you feel like torturing your ex. 

 

Cait pins her hair up in a curly pony and lets wisps escape to frame her face, while looping a rope of pearls around her neck. She shadows her eyes until they look gone up in smoke, slicks pink lipstick over her mouth, and slips her feet into gold trimmed heels.

 

A trace of Yves St Laurent _Opium_ at her wrists and dragged between her breasts and she’s done. 

 

~

 

Sam is drinking wine by the light of the fire. 

 

He’d insisted on lighting a fire that evening when they’re returned from the cafe and had done so every night since. They were bright, mostly heatless blazes, and make the air smell of electricity. Tonight - his third in Positano - he’d decided on pasta for dinner and had spent the afternoon researching restaurants. Caitriona watches him for a moment at the base of the stairs - silent and still. He looks up anyway, and his eyes darken.

 

“Quite the outfit, Balfe."

 

She smiles and dips her head slightly. “Spaghetti demands it."

 

“So it does,” he replies and a grin ghosts over his lips. “Fancy a glass before we head out?"

 

“You know me,” she says and steps into the living room. The fire cracks like thunder and the shifting light plays over his face as he pours her a thin-stemmed flute full of ruby red. She walks over to the large windows that overlook the bay. Positano is all shadows and moon, and the bells clang, beckoning the sailors home. Cait thinks she catches a glimpse of the mermaids out at sea, waving goodbye to their human lovers before disappearing back to the fathoms below. 

 

They are white skinned and full lipped. They have hair like kelp and eyes so full that they hold whole oceans within them, every secret that fishes keep, every storm that has raged on the tips of waves, every canyon, every gull’s cry, every drowned ship. Caitriona closes her own eyes, _so expressive they could enchain a man’s heart_  and sips her wine, trying to banish thoughts of tails split with the scythe of a sea witch’s magic, of treading on knives. Of the imagined jets of blood.

 

Of how foolish hearts can be. 

 

Chasing, ever chasing, ever searching.

 

Ever _hoping_. 

 

Sam’s breath stirs her hair. “What are ye thinking, Balfe?"

 

“Silly things,” she says lightly. He stands at her side, not touching, but close. So close. “This place feels so like a fairy tale. I can’t help but think of stories."

 

“Your mermaid?"

 

She’s surprised by his intuitive question and yet. Not surprised at all, because _oh_ she’d used to read to him sometimes - even when they were away from each other and of course, he remembers. 

 

“A little,” she replies and glances at him. He’s looking down, his eyes hooded, at the way her nipples brush the fabric of her top. Cait thrills a bit at catching him, at the knowledge that though he may pretend - he’s not… _unaware_.

 

And just as she takes that in, she smells him - the heat of him being so _near_  - and that’s when she recognizes it. Like woodsmoke, chillies, smooth as amber, but with that fire of cloves and tobacco and sweetness of earth. The cologne she bought him so long ago - spontaneously in Harrods when she'd been thinking of him like a silly girlfriend.  _Feuilles de Tabac._

She bought him the new cologne because she was a perfume whore (as Karolina so sweetly put it - true enough as Cait easily had hundreds) and it had never occurred to her that most people didn’t vary their signature. As a result, Sam had taken to wearing her gift - but only to bed.

 

It was almost like a secret signal between them. 

 

Her mouth waters now. Those nights, beneath him, against him, the rasp of hair. The drives of his cock. His palms pinning her in place. His wet mouth, his smell, _this_ smell.

 

_God._ Everything in her clenches, waiting, open.

 

“We should go,” Sam says, his voice low and a bit rough, tattered at the edges. As if he is on the brink of something, some avalanche. “Ye do realize those shoes are a wee bit impractical? Nothing but cobblestone for miles out there, babe."

 

“Yes. So?"

 

“Aye, we’ll get a cab."

 

~

 

They are seated on the terrace, at a private table in the corner. Beneath them, the waves rush over rocks, and the view is illuminated only by the candles, the glowing lanterns suspended from the ceiling, and the lit windows of Positano. It is like being lost in a glorious, starry night. 

 

Music plays over the speakers set up, but she doesn’t recognize it. It is sweet, sultry, low enough that it just teases the senses - melds with the sounds of the sea, of the boats rocking on their moors, the other diners’ murmured conversations. 

 

“Bottiglia di Pinor Noir, per favore,” Cait says with a smile.

 

Sam peers at the menu. “Also one of everything, I think."

 

They order anti pasti- oily artichokes, thin slices of rare beef, eggs, thick slabs of honeycomb dripping with nectar, truffles, parmesan, crusty bread - still warm from the ovens - salted almonds, and perfectly greasy olives.

 

For dinner, they receive a bowl of pasta fat with browned butter and pecorino. Penne in vodka cream sauce, burst tomatoes, slivered basil. Grilled shrimp swimming in white wine and parsley, with asparagus and split, fresh mozzarella. More bread, to sop up the sauce. Another bottle of wine.

 

Cait sits back, head a bit swimmy, drunk on the tastes and succulent bites. She laughs a little, unable to help herself. “This is so decadent."

 

“I’ll be at the gym for the rest of my life, I should think,” Sam says, chuckling too. He raises his glass to her. “To Italy."

 

“To Italia,” she says softly. _Clink, clink._ Remembers a different toast, a different time. Macarons and champagne bubbles tickling her nose. “It does feel like another world entirely, doesn’t it?"

 

“It does at that,” he agrees. “That why you came here?"

 

“One of a few reasons,” she says. Candlelight plays across his face, like the glow of the flames did at their apartment. _Her_  apartment, she reminds herself hastily. His hair is like dark fire in the nighttime, and beneath them, the waves continue to make their way irrevocably toward the shore. “It felt like pure escapism, I 'spose."

 

“Sometimes I think we did everything backwards,” Sam says suddenly. He is staring intently at his glass of wine. “Our relationship, I mean."

 

“What do you—"

 

“It makes sense though… I mean, we were just thrown into it, weren’t we? Like soldiers in the trenches. No choice but to be mates. No choice but to get closer than we might’ve regularly."

 

She ponders the subtle cruelty of that remark. “You’re… are you saying that you wouldn’t have wanted me normally?"

 

“ _No,_ ” he says immediately, and downs the wine. His throat works as he swallows. “Christ, do ye think I’m blind? As well as stupid? Any man would be …” a blush heats his face. “Any man would want you,” he finally says and shakes his head. “It’s not about that. It’s about — it’s about how we went about it, do ye ken what I— it’s about how we _had_ to get close, so we were just— forced into some sort of artificial place where getting so serious so quickly seemed right. When we’d probably have dated and done it properly. If it weren’t for the show and the situation."

 

“In all likelihood we’d never have met,” Caitriona says, and she has a visceral reaction to that thought. One she’s never really thought of before. The idea of … _not_ Sam. The idea of her _self_ before Sam. Before this volcano. 

 

“Aye, that’s more likely. Or we’d have met at a pub and shagged.” A smile ghosts over his mouth. “The proper Scottish way."

 

“Thank God I’m Irish then,” she teases lightly. “We prefer a spot of dinner first. Maybe a gig."

 

“I ken very well what you Irish lassies like,” Sam says, and his voice has darkened with something she can’t quite pinpoint. It’s _desire_ but with something else… as if he’s… fighting it? Fighting her? Fighting the hot thing that has been growing between them since she walked down the steps tonight?

 

Since he showed up at her doorstep days before?

 

Since that rainy day in Los Angeles, when she blundered her way into the audition room and everything stopped. Everything began to burn.

 

“It happened the way it happened though,” she says. “That’s life, isn’t it? At the risk of sounding like a cliche.” She pauses. “At the risk of already sounding like a cliche."

 

He laughs and looks at her, really _looks_  and she feels it straight through her. “I ken that but I just— I keep playing it back in my head and I can’t help thinking that’s where it went wrong. Ye know? From the beginning."

 

“Do you really believe that?"

 

“I don’t know, Balfe.” He sounds tired, but stands, moving toward the railing that overlooks the roaring sea beneath. “Come here."

 

She’s startled and stares up at him. “What do you mean?"

 

“Just what I said.” 

 

Caitriona stands, straightens her skirt. He watches her as she does it, his expression inscrutable. He holds out his hand and she takes it. His warm palm against hers, his fingers enclosing. He draws her closer, closer, until she’s in his arms and they are dancing. Swaying minutely to the music, there on the terrace, with the waves and the seabirds their companions.

 

“Why?” she murmurs.

 

“Felt like it was time to stop talking,” he says against her forehead. Mutters beneath his breath when she can’t help but nuzzle in a bit, her nose against his Adam’s apple. “Careful, babe."

 

“Why should I be?"

 

“Everyone has their limits,” he says, low and dark. “I’ve almost reached mine."

 

“Good,” Cait whispers. “I don’t want you so in control."

 

“Aye? Ye might not like what happens."

 

“I like anything you do to me."

 

“ _Christ_ ,” he groans. “We’re leaving."

 

“We need to pay—"

 

“Already done.” He gestures to the table, at the notes left by the empty wine bottle. “Come on, Balfe. I need a walk."

 

~

 

The streets are busy with couples. Like happy, boozy little constellations in the kindest universe. Cait watches them as she and Sam make their way back to the _appartamento,_ not touching, not speaking. Her legs ache from wearing heels and navigating the cobblestones, but she’d rather die than tell the angry lion beside her. 

 

Instead, she thinks she might as well bait it. “What’s got you in such a strop, Heughan?"

 

He lashes her with a glance. “Ye don’t want to know. Trust me."

 

“But I do,” she says lightly. “Was I not supposed to dirty talk? Is that what got your knickers so twisted? You always liked it before."

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he snaps. “Are ye trying to get me to—"

 

“What?"

 

“Lose my temper,” he replies finally and strides ahead, down a side street with closed shops and hanging vines. It is dark and hushed, and she wants to tell him to keep his voice down but isn’t sure that’s the right move at the present moment. 

 

“Well what else is there to do? You haven’t been keen to really talk to me or work this out so—"

 

He laughs shortly. “Perhaps I just worry that once we finally — resolve things. I mean properly resolve them… it’ll be—"

 

“Over?"

 

“Aye."

 

“Isn’t that what you want?"

 

Sam looks over at her suddenly, sharply. His voice is rough. “Do ye think I _want_ to break my own heart, Caitriona?"

 

Her throat is thick. “No —"

 

“So why, then?"

 

“Why what?"

 

“Why do ye think I’m here?"

 

“I don’t know."

 

“To see _you_ ,” he whispers. “Don’t ye understand that yet? Don’t ye see that I’m —“ he breaks off, shaking his head. “I’m a fool. To be so _mad_ for someone who—"

 

“Sam—"

 

“Do ye want to know what’s got me in a mood?"

 

“Well I…"

 

He’s breathing hard and grabs her arms, backing her up, pressing her against the stone wall between a shuttered bookseller and a closed apothecary's. Nearby, people still walk up the main streets, and they’d only have to glance down to see them, two figures cast in sharp relief by the light of the moon.

 

And yet, it as if they are alone on an island of their own making, a pinprick of land in a vast plain of water  - together, in the moment, as if they have been stranded, shipwrecked, a sailor and his mermaid.

 

She is shuddering and Sam stares at her for a moment, eyes like ink.

 

“Because of this, Caitriona,” he says low, and then in one movement, tears her top into two pieces, baring her breasts to the air, to the heat of his gaze. “Christ,” he says again, and then his hands cover her nipples, tugging them without any mercy, bringing them to hurting life with his thumbs and forefingers.

 

Cait moans out loud, and he swoops down, lips flushing with hers, kissing her with everything in him. Just like their first kiss. Wet tongue, sharp teeth, insistence, _want_. 

 

“I’ve been in fucking _agony_  since I walked through yer door,” he says into her mouth. “But tonight — that top — this skirt.” He reaches beneath it and covers her ass with his palms. “Are ye— Cait, you’re not wearing—"

 

“No,” she whispers, snaring his lip and biting. “I wanted you to smell me."

 

“You’re killing me, babe."

 

“I know."

 

He spreads her legs as she frantically unbuckles his belt, pushing it away and unbuttoning his jeans, pushing them down and watching as his cock springs free of his boxer briefs, already hard, pulsing, purplish tipped and so obviously hungry that her mouth waters. He has her skirt pushed up around her waist and he lifts her slightly, _onto_ him and with just a slight twist, he’s inside.

 

“Ugh,” he groans against her neck.

 

She can’t speak, her head thrown back, every part of her on fire with the feel of his cock so deep in her pussy, so _deep_ that it’s as if she’s being cleaved in two. She wants to cry, to beg, to rake him with her nails until she draws blood, to fuck back until he’s the one begging, until he makes the sounds she knows he makes.

 

She smells him again, _feuilles de tabac_ and the salt of his pre-cum, and then he’s moving, thrusting up into her, his hands punishing her ass, holding her in place, holding her open, spread. He whispers to her. _Give your pussy to me, Caitriona, I want ye to feel every inch. Do ye feel me? Answer me_

And it comes out in a rush, like one word _yesyesyesyespleaseyes_

 

He angles her in such a way that he couldn’t possibly be any deeper, and he’s hitting a place within her that Cait didn’t know existed. She can’t breathe or speak or do anything but _feel_ , feel herself spasming around him. And still, he fucks up into her, with a savagery that she recognizes.

 

The savage within both of them, awoken.

 

Her feet press into the hollow of his lower back. She’s splayed and so fucking _taken_ that all she can do is hold onto his shoulders, her back scraping against the stone, her mouth open in endless moans that sound like keens,

 

the cries of birds.


	8. et les oiseaux ne dit rien.

_December 2013._

_Paris._

Caitriona chose the book carefully, taking it from the shelf like she would a china doll or any other delicate thing. Its spine was worn with age, and the title embossed in silver. The pages smelled of mysteries, of woodsmoke, of the dozens of years they’d been here on earth, existing within houses and homes and hotels.

 

She looked back at her lover and smiled. “This one, I think."

 

~

 

The  _hôtel de charme_ was in Montmartre.   


 

Sam had blushed faintly when they’d pulled up in the taxi, mumbling, “It’s a bit … like a museum I think. I thought ye’d like it."

 

All of the suites had been brought to vivid life by artists and given names to reflect the design. Their’s was the oddly named ’Trees with Ears', which Sam found instantly hilarious.

 

Cait spent the first moments staring at the intricate wallpaper. Reading about how the figures represented birds without vocal cords - silenced for their talkativeness. Silenced lest they reveal the intimacies that happened within the rooms. Lovers’ whispers, the tribulations between human beings, the endless and small negotiations.

 

As she wandered within the suite, she did not speak for fear she would startle the very air they breathed. The library, smelling of must and ink and thousands, millions of words. Everything baroque, like the castle that Beauty stumbled into, unaware, seeking her father and finding the beast in his lair. Velvet and raw silks, sunken couches and an enormous bed, edged in gold. The mirror in the bathroom like a passageway into another world.

 

Cait touched the glass, just lightly, wondering if her fingers would disappear past - into the fathoms deep.

 

“Do ye like it, then?” Sam asked quietly, standing with his hands in his pockets, watching her.

 

She turned to him, swallowing. Unable to capture what was knotting her throat, her belly. Unwilling to bring something into… _this_ that might frighten them both, but — how could she not tell him?

To be so _known._  


“It’s exquisite,” Cait said, and he smiled - that Sam smile that she fancied she was the only one who ever saw. Private, intimate, _hers._  


 

Outside, a flowering tree spilled its blooms past their window. The sky darkened with the first hints of a storm, the earth spinning on its endless axis, and here they were, together - and no one knew.

 

Not a soul knew, and it made Caitriona feel as if they were castaways. Their suite of rooms like an island, the branched wallpaper the palms around them, and above, the searing stars. 

 

She felt… _incandescent_  and almost dangerous with it, because how could she be this happy when everything was still so new? So undecided? And yet.

 

“Shall we get out and explore?” Sam asked, rubbing his hands together like a little boy.

 

She laughed against the threat of tears. “Yes, let’s."

 

Paris welcomed them like a lover, opening her arms and blanketing their faces with rushes of wind and frosty breath. They wrapped up well, half-covered their faces with scarves and she tucked the Claire curls beneath a cap. Sunglasses for both and they were off, clinging together like teenagers, rambling through Montmartre, stopping only for cups of dark coffee and succulent croissants, the flaky pastries filled with slabs of rich chocolate. 

 

They had lunch at Soul Kitchen, crammed into a tiny table, with paper butterflies flickering past them. Sam ate a large bowl of veggie korma, and Cait had a _c_ _hèvre chaud salade de fromage_ with a perfect poached egg on top. When she stabbed it with her fork, the warm yolk coated the spinach leaves beneath, and though she felt herself groaning at the marriage of the creamy, lemony cheese and the rich yolk, it was only Sam’s shameless mirth that brought her back to earth.   


 

“It’s _good_ ,” she mumbled.

 

“I ken that, Balfe. It’s a bit of a Harry Met Sally situation though."

 

“I invite everyone in here to fuck off and let me enjoy my foodgasm."

 

“Should’ve told me ye were hangry, babe. I would’ve insisted we eat earlier."

 

She clinked her glass with his. “You’re learning, Sam. Slowly but surely."

 

He chuckled and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “I look forward to the rest."

 

They brought back macarons, wine, an oddly shaped baguette (Sam insisted, said it was like a gigantic penis and Cait had giggled so much they’d had to leave the _boulangerie_ ), a block of aged cheese from Chez Virginie (Cait insisted, because part of Paris’ appeal was the ability to eat things like cake and cheese and not gain weight), and inexplicably, dozens of fridge magnets. 

 

  
_Sam_ had insisted. “We have to mark the hols with some sort of tradition."

 

“Couldn’t we pick something a bit more…"

 

“What?"

 

“ _Befitting_ of Paris?” she said pointedly.

 

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned today, babe, it’s that Paris isn’t up its own arse."

 

“Oh no?"

 

“Nah. Everyone smokes. Everyone enjoys a drink. And I think they’d quite fancy these magnets."

 

How could she argue with that? She couldn’t, and so they’d ferreted out the best in every gift shop and now, as they stumbled into the hotel’s restaurant, Cait was picturing her fridge back in Los Angeles peppered with these little magnetized memories. It was an odd thought - it felt… permanent? and she shook herself, letting the maitre-d take her coat and bags and lead them through the restaurant. Dark and cozy, done in navy velvet and with candles lit at every table, it was like a refuge, a haven from the endless rain they’d left outside.

 

“Votre menu, monsieur,” the server said, handing Sam the wine list and not even blinking an eye when he ordered “the best red you have,” without once opening it. 

 

“Avec plaisir."

 

“A bit pretentious, you,” Caitriona chided and leaned back against the plushness of her chair. Bliss. 

 

“Can’t make sense of those lists,” he shrugged. “Best leave that to the professionals, aye?"

 

She laughed. “You could’ve let me have a go."

 

“Not fitting,” Sam replied, studying the food. “I’m a gentleman."

 

“So chivalrous,” she mocked.

 

“Too right, Balfe."

 

Cait rolled her eyes. “What’re you having?"

 

“Beef,” he pointed at the menu. “I want man food."

 

“Stop being such a twat."

 

He chucked her chin. “Just messing with you, babe, but I am having the beef. With bacon."

 

“That’s eight euros extra, you big spender."

 

“Might as well spend it while I have it."

 

“Is my hair a complete shit show? You can be honest."

 

“I know better than that,” he laughed. “But nah, it looks nice."

 

“Nice?"

 

“Nice.” He quirked his eyebrows. “What? It does. A bit like we walked through a rainstorm, but we did."

 

“You’re so comforting."

 

“Ye asked,” Sam returned, a half smile ghosting over his lips. “Besides, if you’re actually trying to tell me ye don’t know how — _ridiculously_ gorgeous ye are, I won’t believe ye."

 

Blush heated her cheeks, as pink as the petals that flowered outside. “I wasn’t talking about… that. Just this sodding perm."

 

“Well, ye are."

 

“Sam."

 

“When ye walked into that audition room — Christ.” He sat back and closed his eyes for a moment. “I can still remember how knocked for a six I was."

 

“You saw beautiful women all day long for weeks, so don’t be a —"

 

His eyes locked on hers. “Ye really don’t know? Beauty is one thing, Caitriona. Lots of women are quite pretty and have nice legs and whatever else — but when I saw ye — it was like… lightning."

 

“Don’t be daft,” she whispered. “It was not."

 

“Ye looked like ye do now,” he said, voice low, hushed, his words as startling as fireflies. “You’d been in the rain. Your hair was wet and I remember ye had this expression on your face like you’d made a mess of things. But ye still smiled and charged forward to shake everyone’s hands and I just knew, I suppose."

 

“Knew what?"

 

Sam smiled that ghost of a smile again. “If ye don’t already know, I’m not going to tell you."

 

~

 

Macarons.

Air-light, faintly sweet, like clouds of softness and crisp, buttery cookie. "And yet no butter," she said to Sam, marveling. "It's like a baking miracle."

 

"Do quite like macaroons," he mumbled through bites. "Well lush."

 

" _Macarons_ , you knob," she said and bopped his forehead with her palm. 

 

"I've got a knob ye can play with."

 

Caitriona laughed, full-belly, and rolled off the couch to pour herself some more wine.

 

“Any more of that going?"

 

“I think there’s a few drops left,” she teased, bringing the bottle back to the couch. It was huge and cushiony, overlooking the library built into the room. The shelves were crammed with tomes - mainly in French, but she’d spotted a few in _anglaise_ and she was determined to look before they left. She imagined fairytales skittering off the pages, filling the walls with princesses, dragons. “Dinner was good."

 

He was in sweats and a tee, sprawled with his back against one of the rests. Hair curling wildly from his shower. “I should’ve had the gnocchi."

 

“All right there, Uncle Bryn."

 

“Good show, that,” Sam said, as she settled across from him, tucking her feet underneath his thighs.

 

“Might be on Netflix."

 

“We’re only halfway through the football one,” he said, yawning hugely.

 

“Boring you, am I?"

 

“ _So much_ walking."

 

“You’re supposed to be the fit one."

 

He cracked open an eye and narrowed it in her direction. “I should’ve worn trainers but _someone_ told me I looked like a tourist."

 

“You did _,”_ she said helpfully. 

 

“Well now my feet feel like blocks of cement so thank ye for that."

 

“You’re welcome, Heughan."

 

“Mmmph."

 

“Oh you complete child.” She paused. “Shall I rub them?"

 

“My feet?"

 

“Yes,” she laughed at his startled expression. “Isn’t that what gir—mates do?"

 

He blinked owlishly. “If my mates tried to rub my feet, I’d knock their blocks off, Balfe."

 

“But…"

 

He grinned and stuck his heels in her face, nudging them against her cheeks. “But ye can go to town if you’d like."

 

“Geroff,” she shrieked, pushing at his toes. “You git."

 

He laughed and grabbed her, pulling her onto his body and looping his arms behind her back. “Not very matey of you."

 

Cait braced herself on either side of him and quirked a brow. “Neither is this."

 

“Kinda past that, Balfe. We’re in the city of love or whatever bollocks."

 

“How romantic,” she said tartly. 

 

“Ye roll your eyes every time I say anything the slightest bit—"

 

“I do _not,_ ” she said and bit his lower lip. “Stop being such a woman."

 

“I am so turned on right now."

 

Caitriona giggled and shimmied a bit. “All evidence to the contrary, Heughan."

 

“Can’t help it. Being told I’m acting like a girl just gets me going.” He sighed theatrically. “How’d ye guess?"

 

“For starters you have more face creams than I do."

 

“My face is my life."

 

“You _are_ ridiculous, you know that right?"

 

“It makes ye laugh though, doesn’t it?” he murmured and tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “Mission accomplished in my books."

 

She squirmed a bit. His eyes were… _tender_? Almost raw with it, that perfect, blinding blue. It frightened her - same as her own strange, unyielding happiness - and Caitriona reached down, slipped her hand beneath the band of his sweats. His small intake of breath was like music, and everything within her unfurled, began to hurt.

 

“How’s that?” she whispered, her palm against him. He was hot beneath her hand, already beginning to pulse with blood and want.

 

“Can’t complain."

 

“No?” she said breathily and slipped down, kneeling on the floor. “How about now?"

 

“Still none to speak of,” he said roughly, staring at her as she drew down his sweats, pulling them past his knees. His hand cupped her face. “How about you?"

 

“None at all…” she said, licking her lips and watching him blush. Her hands skated up his thighs, delving into the rough hair, the softness right before his balls, where he was warm and secret. “It’s quite impressive, actually."

 

“Oh?” he said, his voice strangled.

 

“Yes,” she returned, dipping her head and dragging her tongue over his hipbone, nipping his skin.

 

He felt feverish, ready. His cock stretched to his belly button, straining and purplish. She drew his foreskin fully away from the head, pumping just once with her fist before swallowing him whole. Sam jerked and groaned out loud when she enveloped him in hot wetness, and Cait’s insides contracted. 

 

Long strokes with her tongue, flicks at the head, just enough suction to keep him crazy, and a wet palm on his balls. Caitriona listened to his breathing, the roughness of it, the thickening of his moans. 

 

“Ugh _fuck_ ,” Sam rasped out and sat up, leaning forward. His thighs widened to accommodate the new position. “Dinna stop— just let me—"

 

He reached over her and ripped away her panties in one motion, exposing her ass to the air. Cait wriggled under his hand, speared in place with his cock down her throat and her pussy so wet she felt as if she had a river between her legs. He spanked her just once, and she moaned around him.

 

“Christ,” Sam said low, and then he was fingering her in time with her movements, two, then three fingers fucking her as surely as she was fucking him with her lips and tongue. 

 

He angled her slightly so that his thumb brushed her clit, like a firework. 

 

Cait reared up a bit, gazing at him. “Sam you don’t have—"

 

“I want to, babe,” he groaned out, his fingers driving harder. “I want to feel ye come with my cock in your mouth."

 

Cait whimpered and went back to him, her wet hand fisting him, her mouth on his engorged head - sucking and licking until she could feel the pulse in his balls, how they tightened up against his body. Sucking until he began spasming, his stomach tightening, his thighs involuntarily locking around her shoulders, and for some reason - it was _that -_ the loss of control, the mad way his hand worked her pussy through his own orgasm - that made Cait shatter, the salt of him filling her mouth, the merciless thrusts of his fingers filling her, _fucking_ her.

 

“I think ye broke my hand,” he laughed moments later, as they lay in a sweaty heap on the floor.

 

“Je ne regrette rien,” she teased and untangled herself. She walked over to the bookcase and gazed over the shelves, reading the titles with something akin to wonder. So many little planets here, just waiting for discovery.

 

Caitriona chose the book carefully, taking it from the shelf like she would a china doll or any other delicate thing. Its spine was worn with age, and the title embossed in silver. The pages smelled of mysteries, of woodsmoke, of the dozens of years they’d been here on earth, existing within houses and homes and hotels.

 

She looked back at Sam and smiled. “This one, I think."

 

She sat back on the couch and he settled between her legs, leaning his head back against her shoulder in the half-light. A petal fell from the pages as she opened them, pressed there by someone long forgotten. Around them, the birds listened with still throats and outside, the moon moved over the sky like a silver ship.

 

Cait traced the first words with her finger and began to read, to him, _for_ him, this song of her heart. 

 

“Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower, it is very, very deep; so deep indeed that no cable could fathom it: many church steeples, piled one upon another, would not reach the ground beneath to the surface of the water above. There dwell the Sea King and his subjects…"

 


End file.
